


Durin's Sons

by KivrinEngle



Series: The Sons of Durin [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Journalism, Sons of Durin 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:21:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivrinEngle/pseuds/KivrinEngle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How greed and secrecy bred the most dangerous family in Scotland: An investigative journalism project by Faramir Stewart.</p>
<p>Third part of the Sons of Durin 'verse, though it does not necessarily need to be read in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> So here's what's going on, my ducks! This series (alternately titled Faramir Investigates) will serve to show alternate viewpoints of the Sons of Durin before, during, and after their trials. Please note, I am not a journalist in any way, nor am I intimately familiar with Scottish politics or legalities, so I hope you will overlook any inaccuracies. 
> 
> This project will also serve as a bridge between The Sons of Durin/Children of the Lonely Mountain and the, umm, sequel. Yeah. We're going there. Expect about 5-7 parts in this series, as I also finish up some of my other projects, and then we're heading into sequel territory properly. Yikes. 
> 
> Seriously, I'm so excited to be diving back into this! I love this 'verse so much, and love getting to share it with you, and I can't wait!

Durin’s Sons: How greed and secrecy bred the most dangerous family in Scotland.  
By Faramir Stewart

Published March 2013. Read by Bilbo Baggins in the weeks before his first personal encounter with Gandalf and the Sons of Durin.

 

In the hills of Sterlingshire, much has changed in the last few hundred years. The land, the livestock, even the people themselves have suffered upheavals, by fire and sword and the whims of the politically strong. The mountains seem one of the few constants - hard and unshifting rock, still holding fast.

The legends of the locals have not changed, either. In tired little Tyndrum, at the foot of the most infamous mountain in these parts of Scotland, one mention of the name Durin will bring more attention than I could have expected.

‘Durin comes back to look after us,’ Tilda Bowman tells me. She is seven years old, and has lived in Tyndrum all her life. The stories of the mountains are in her bones. ‘He was made out of our mountains, and he comes when we need him.’

I had hoped to speak to her father, Bard Bowman, who is something of a notable figure in the town, but he muttered about things he had to do elsewhere, and told his children not to speak to me. They do not seem perturbed. 

The people of Tyndrum do not shudder at the name of Durin, or look over their shoulders, expecting silent menace from the shadows. They look up to the mountains and wait.

The Lonely Mountain

In Edinburgh, the name Durin has an entirely different connotation. 

I had never given the Sons of Durin more thought than any other gang of thugs, until a private detective contacted me personally. His name must be withheld for reasons of security, but he advised me to look into the gang that has held the major cities of Scotland in fear these past years. For the past eight months, I have spoken to as many individuals connected with the case as I could locate, and have done my best to locate the actual documents and evidence that underlies the threat the Sons of Durin pose to polite society. In this three-part series, I will investigate the origins of this mysterious group, trace the story of their descent into crime and terror, and explore the reality of the threat they pose. 

The story begins with a mountain. They often seem to, here in Scotland. Beinn Chuirn is an unimposing sight, one of many small mountains in the Sterlingshire landscape, and it seems far too peaceful and silent to be the source of the most frightening domestic terror group in recent history. 

The residents of Tyndrum tell me that there have always been miners on Beinn Chuirn, though that is more poetry than fact. As it happens, the mountain was once the home of lead miners who made their homes near their mines, and who brought trade and livelihood to Tyndrum for nearly two centuries.

The people of Tyndrum don’t talk much about the fact that the lead miners upset the wrong side of a political struggle, and watched their homes burn to the ground. 

My particular interest in the mountain lies a bit later in history, though. I spoke with an older gentleman in the best pub in Tyndrum, hoping he would recall something of the beginnings of our story. He is an intelligent and charismatic man, with a canny eye for a business deal, as I discovered to the lightening of my wallet. He squinted up in the direction of the mountain as he reminisced.

‘It would have been ‘87, I suppose, when it all started. It was old Thrain dying that started it, though I say it as shouldn’t, as he was younger then than I am now, God save me.’ He chuckles darkly. ‘1987, and he was dead of a bad heart, and young Thorin left to manage the whole lot, with the lead mines played out. Thought he was like to lose it all.’

He pauses then, and waited for me to order another round of drinks. I urge him to continue, and there is as much sorrow as anger in his face when he goes on. 

‘They found gold in ‘87, and that was the beginning of the end. Not that Thorin told anyone, mind - not but old Girion Bowman, and he kept it quiet until long after.’

This isn’t the first rumour I have heard about gold or buried treasure. Some say the Sons of Durin are a money-laundering organisation, or involved in black-market operations with stolen gems. It’s a different take on the nature of the mountain itself, though, and it gives me a new direction to explore. 

The mountain is a lonely place, now. The Master of the town (or so he styles himself) points me in the direction of the clearest walking-path, up through Cononish Glen, and I find myself walking with the ghosts of the mountain. On an autumn day when the leaves are burning in shades of auburn and gold, the empty mines and abandoned ruins of the houses that once stood together in a quiet glen are unnaturally silent. 

I snap pictures of the old houses from behind the high fence that is meant to keep the public out of the dangerous ruins. It feels a bit like desecration. If there was ever gold here, there is none now. 

There is little to be found about gold in the official records. If what the people of Tyndrum say is true, Thorin and his kin would have applied for mining rights. There is no record of any such application, nor of test drillings or mineral exploration concessions. However, there is a perplexing note buried within a publication from the Minister of the Environment, and I spend a week buried in parliamentary history.

In 1992, under circumstances that are clearly billed as entirely unsuspicious, the Minister for the Environment died without warning, and was summarily replaced by a upcoming young politician known only by his surname. Smaug was well regarded in political circles and a popular figure in society when he took up the position. No-one had anything bad to say about him.

This is not generally a good thing, in politics. 

Less than a week after taking his position, Smaug made history by dedicating the first national park in Scotland, encompassing the entirety of Thorin Oakenshield’s mountain. (These lands were later incorporated into the Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park upon it’s institution in 2002.) According to the records, Thorin was offered compensation for the land, but refused the money.

July 27th, 1992. The police record submitted by two officers identified only as Thranduil and Elrond was entered into the official documentation for this date, but significant portions were redacted. From what is remaining, the picture is only slightly clarified. 

‘Proceeded upon orders from (redacted) to remove trespassers from Crown Estate lands….Encountered resistance from Oakenshield and (redacted). Upon orders, we-’

The rest is a morass of black lines and omissions. A Fatal Accident Injuries report from the local Sheriff is attached, but with all the identifying information removed. There were deaths on Beinn Chuirn the night of July 27th, and no way to know who was killed. 

Curiousity has always been one of my fatal flaws, and I pull up the photos I had snapped on the mountain and examine them in detail. The abandoned ruins of houses on the mountain look like they have lain open to the elements for long decades or centuries, rather than the bare twenty years since the removal of the inhabitants. As I look more closely, it becomes clear. 

The tiny cottages of Beinn Chuirn did not fall to the elements. They were burned. 

I call the office of the Minister of the Environment and ask for an interview.


	2. Two

The Minister for the Environment, known to the public and his staff alike only as Smaug, is a consummate politician. He looks every inch the part. He is perfectly put together, with the kind of grace and style one expects from a movie star rather than a public servant. I meet with him in his office, where the decor and ambiance all seem as completely calculated as every other aspect of his appearance, diction, and personal presentation. The message is clear: Smaug is not a man to be trifled with, nor one to anger easily. I am not unaccustomed to the trappings of power and dignity, but I find myself uneasy in the man’s presence, much as a mouse might feel in the company of a lion. 

“What manner of information are you seeking?” Smaug asks me immediately. There is no time for idle chatter with the man, but he is easily graceful and unfailingly polite. He is a man who knows the power he holds. I find myself a trifle wrongfooted. 

“I’m interested in your National Parks initiative,” I finally manage, hoping I have managed to start in the right place. “It seems so innovative. I wondered what sort of reactions you found to the whole endeavour.”

His eyes bore into me, and I am not certain whether the man ever blinks. “You want to know about the mountain,” he says slowly, his voice an amused drawl. “It’s Oakenshield who interests you, isn’t it?”

I have to admit it, and I find myself impressed in no small measure. Smaug chuckles, a rich, deep sound that fills the opulent office. It is dark and heavy with reds and golds. It is not a place of comfort. 

Smaug leans back in his chair, swiveling idly from side to side as he watches me. “The man is an enigma, is he not? He seemed quite the dedicated family man when I met him all those years ago, and yet what has he done to his family? They are criminals now, when they might never have been anything but honest farmers or merchants or till-operators in any town in Scotland.”

“So you have met him personally?” I press, leaning forward. 

“He came to me with a - shall we say, proposal,” Smaug murmurs. His voice is deep and smooth, but so quiet I can hardly hear it. “He had found gold in his little hill, and wanted to mine it himself. Can you imagine? No capital, no labour to speak of, no idea how deep or rich the seams went.” He laughs a bit, shaking his head. I do not take my eyes off of him. “It was a losing proposition from the start, and I tried to help him see it. I offered him far more than the land was worth for the mineral rights alone, and the opportunity to play a role in the mining operations.” His head shakes slowly, solemnly, as if in mourning. “Thorin Oakenshield was never one for well-considered choices. He acts in anger and haste, and it has cost more lives than even he could have anticipated.”

“And what did you anticipate?” I asks quickly, feeling as though my nerve might fail. “What did you do, then, when he refused the offer?”

His smile is wide and toothy, spreading slowly across his face. “No good politician takes no for an answer,” he purrs. “I could not stand by and watch such a man tear into the heart of the land so unprepared. It is better for it to stay untouched, a sanctuary for wildlife and nature lovers. Should we not defend our land against such deplorable greed, practiced by those with no love for anything but riches?”

I pulled out my copy of the official publication from Smaug’s office on the opening of the national park, and push it across the desk, indicating the highlighted portion. “Then why does this state that the mineral exploration concessions are reserved, now and in perpetuity, to a company called Dragonstooth Ventures?” I think he nearly hissed at me, and he sat up quickly, eyes going cold and hard. I pushed on. “In fact, according to my research, Dragonstooth is your own company. Why assign yourself the mineral rights if your only concern is the natural state of the wilderness?”

“Mr. Stewart,” Smaug growls - still polite, still low and steady, but there is a thrum of menace in the words. “You are yet young and untested, and your father tells me you have little understanding of business or politics. I would not expect you to comprehend the complexities of such arrangements.”

“But surely-” 

Smaug does not let me finish. He stands sinuously, and his very frame is a threat. “You wish to find a story here that will make your name known. One that will show your father the folly of his disregard. One that will prove you can change the world with your words, your feeble questions and flimsy papers. You would paint me as a villain if you could, young word-smith, and cast me down into infamy to make your mark on the world. You would make Oakenshield and his bunch of thugs and ruffians the heroes of the piece in order to show me as a weak and power-hungry politician who meddles in little gold mines for his own wealth.” He looms over me, without ever moving from his place behind a heavy wooden desk. 

“I am only looking for the truth! The public has a right to know what happened on that mountain.” My hands shake as I hold up a sheaf of questions I still wish to ask, but I press on. “People died that night, Smaug, and I think you know who and why! I have an obligation to the truth, and to the public!”

“My dear boy.” Smaug’s voice is a chuckle now, and he sits down, tugging on his well-tailored suit coat to make it all hang perfectly again. “The day the people start to take interest in politics will be the day I hang up my claws and settle down into obscurity! Let us not lie to one another.”

“Fine. Tell me then, as one honest man to another. Why Beinn Chuirn? If there is so little profit to be found there, why make it a battle? What was there that was important enough to fight Thorin Oakenshield for?”

“That is not mine to tell,” Smaug says silkily. “I answer to far higher powers than a muck-raking journalist or his uninterested readership. But I will tell you that the gold is the least of our concerns for that mountain, and for Oakenshield and his gang.” His eyes are dark and malevolent, but he seems as genial as any politician could hope to appear. “After all,” he says cheerfully, settling back into a comfortable position in his chair and watching me through heavy-lidded eyes. “Isn’t it all for the children? They are our legacy. A vibrant system of national parks will ensure their future wellbeing and connection to the land.”

There is nothing more he will give me. I ask further questions, but find only the platitudes of politics or the rhetoric of the campaign pamphlet, and I leave with more questions than I had to begin with. I do not leave without some knowledge, though.

The first concern I now struggle with is for my own journalistic integrity and motivations in pursuing the story. You must judge for yourself, in reading this story, whether I have done as Smaug accused and sought only to sensationalise a story for my own profit. I am no longer certain of my own mind. That is the danger of conversing with Smaug, as I now know. 

The second is more concrete, though no more ready to yield up answers. Who is it that Smaug works for, and what is their interest in a lonely little mountain in Sterlingshire? How is it that he feels so little concern for his future political prospects that he is willing to openly discuss a matter that would be dangerous to any career politician? In short, I leave his cavern feeling as though I have awoken a dragon who has full confidence in his armour, and will not hesitate to set fire to anything that stands in his path. 

The Road Thus Far

It is not yet clear precisely what happened on Beinn Chuirn twenty years ago, but my investigations into the legal and judicial proceedings surrounding that evening are forestalled by a lack of available evidence. I turn my attention to the Sons of Durin themselves, and the road they have traveled in the past two decades. 

More questions than answers are to be found when one looks into the heart of the criminal sector of society, and the Sons of Durin are no exception. No one can tell me how many they are, or where they make their headquarters. The name they have chosen for themselves speaks to their roots and the legends of their home, but I suspect it was not always endued with the sense of fear it now carries. They are an enigma, little more than a shadow behind the looming figure of Thorin Oakenshield himself. 

My first real lead on the individual members of the group comes from Detective Inspector Thranduil, whose name I follow from the official police records of the night when Beinn Chuirn burned. Thranduil was there that night, and he grants me a brief audience. He speaks quickly, all business, and we conduct the interview at a brisk walking pace as he patrol the streets of Edinburgh, eyes sharp and constantly on the lookout for any dangers that may have invaded his territory. 

“I myself will find them,” he insists. There seems to be professional pride at stake, so I do not challenge that statement. “I have chased Oakenshield and his kin for two decades, and I am drawing close. I am a patient man. I can wait.”

Thranduil tells me that they are looking for a dozen men, give or take a few rumoured accomplices. He has names and descriptions for at least ten of them, and lists them off for me with a speed that speaks to years of dedication, or perhaps obsession. Further questioning also wins me a list of names and addresses for several individuals who had lived on the mountain until it was forcibly cleared, though he admits these leads are likely no longer involved with Oakenshield and his followers. 

What Thranduil will not discuss is the night he helped to clear the little mountain village where the miners and their families had lived. He passes me off to one of his subordinates when my questions become too pointed, and I find that Detective Tauriel is far less forthcoming about details - at least until I hit on the right topic.

“These last two names,” I press, squinting down at my own rapidly scribbled notes. “Fill and Kill Oakenshield, is it? Are they Thorin’s brothers? Sons?”

“Fili and Kili,” she corrects me sharply, staring at me too-intensely, and then looking away quickly. “They are his nephews. Legally, their surname is Campbell, but they seem to have given that up since Thorin took over the raising of them. Don’t be fooled by the fact that they’re young, though. They may be the worst of the lot.”

“How so?”

“We can’t work out exactly what it is they do for him, but any time they are involved in a crime, we’re left without a trace. We never find an electronic record or video evidence when they’ve come around, and all the witnesses had convenient sneezing fits or attacks of gout and can never seem to recall having seen or heard anything.” She gives an annoyed huff at the thought, shaking her head. “The young criminal element practically worships those two these days. When we nab them, it will do great things for the youths programme.”

She will give me no further information. Enquiries lodged with DI Elrond, the other police official of name in the incident reports from the night of the clearance, go unanswered. Without much further police assistance, I go back to the records and piece together what I can of the history of the Sons of Durin.

The name did not appear in any media for the first five years after they became homeless, and I cannot find any reason for it beginning to appear. They are simply there one day, making news headlines in Tyndrum at first, and then farther and farther afield. It starts with small things - food disappearing here, clothes vanishing from donation points there - and then grows in severity. Cars and motorbikes are targeted, never to be seen again. There are reports of bank robberies, muggings of the rich and powerful, fraud and theft of all descriptions. Arrests are made every now and then, and accusations of involvement with the criminal group known as the Sons of Durin are thrown about, but never seem to stick. 

I look for Oakenshield’s nephews in particular, having been given their full names, and I find an interesting incident. They were taken into care in 2000, following the death of their mother. My contact who put me on to the case was able to find me the name and address of one of the foster parents involved, and I wind up on the phone with Gracie McDonnell. She has met the Sons of Durin personally, and has the oddest perspective on the group I have heard to date. 

“Their hearts are in the right places, Mr. Stewart,” she assures me confidently. McDonnell has fostered children on and off for nearly a quarter of a century, and has seen her fair share of rough cases. “I only had the little one for a few days, but it was enough to let me see that he was deeply loved by those rough fellows. They went about things the wrong way, but I think they only ever meant the best.”

“Didn’t they steal half a dozen vehicles immediately after kidnapping the lad back from you?” I ask, though I already have the police reports in front of me.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “And I know they would have done far worse if I hadn’t given the boy back to them. I’m not under any delusion that they are saints. The Sons of Durin are desperate men who have been dealt a bad hand, and they are up against forces they don’t know how to handle. I’ll be the last one to judge them for any of that - not after I’ve seen the love they showed to those poor children.”

I decide not to tell her that those poor children have grown up to be the terrors of Edinburgh’s dark places, or that the young criminals of the cities are looking to them for inspiration. 

The reputation of the Sons of Durin goes far beyond petty crimes and inspiring others to criminal lifestyles, of course, and it is here that I struggle to find evidence. 

“Sons of Durin?” Mrs. Gamgee, a customer in a quaint little grocery in Linlithgow, scowls at the question. “Of course I know about them! They’re terrorists, everyone knows that! They blow things up, I hear. They’d never blink at murdering us all in our own beds!”

“Environmental terrorists” is the conclusion reached by Aragorn Longshanks, a self-described anarchist vigilante in the Scottish Highlands. He does not object to their refusal to follow the rules of society, he is careful to point out. “Endangering that natural landscape, though - I can’t abide by that. We have a duty to the land.”

But there is no evidence of terrorism or murder in any of the official records, nor in the newspaper accounts that attribute every unexplained crime to the Sons of Durin. They are criminals, there can be no doubt of that, but the government is the only body that has offered any accusations of such magnitude, and they seem to have nothing substantial behind the labels. It seems these words come mostly from the office of none other than Smaug himself, and they have stood, unchallenged. There is no precedent for such a thing. 

I reach out to another round of contacts with one particular question in mind: what danger are we in from the Sons of Durin? Is the mass opinion of the public correct, that we should cower in our beds from the ever-present danger of the mysterious and savage gang? Do they have the power their reputation would imply? Where will the next attack come from, and who should be afraid of the anger of Thorin Oakenshield?

I suspect Smaug should sleep with a weapon to hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how addictive it was, writing Smaug. Writing in this 'verse at all. You guys are NEVER going to get rid of me now! I'm in the process of figuring out where everyone fits in this world, and it's still a bit in flux, but I love figuring out where people belong in this story. 
> 
> I hope this is even a fraction as enjoyable for you to read as it is for me to write! Thank you so very much to those who have been reading - it means so much to me!


	3. Three

I have spent more than eight months investigating the Sons of Durin, and found more questions than answers along the way. The greatest question of them all, though, remains to be answered: How dangerous are the Sons of Durin? How worried ought we to be about them? What immediate threat, when it comes down to it, do they really pose? 

It was with the intention of answering this final question that I turned to some of my less traditional sources of information. Police reports and news articles about the group continually stress the intense danger posed by the group, the skill they have shown at moving about quickly and without being caught, and even the likelihood that they have procured weapons for themselves that would allow them a great possibility of creating chaos in our cities. What I could not find in any of these sources were hard facts about the group or their aims. Smaug himself seems content to leave it unclear whether he believes they mean to take back their mountain and take up mining, or if they merely intend to cause trouble as a result of losing their land to his national parks endeavour.

There are not many willing to admit knowledge of the Sons of Durin, in Edinburgh or further afield. Some gossipy individuals will share the story of how their second cousin almost saw them, or even claim to have personally sighted them - but I found all of these potential sources of information to be false trails, little more substantial than the mist that hangs over their abandoned mountain. None of the contacts listed in the official records will admit any dealings with Thorin and his shadowy company in the last decade or more, and my questions are deeply unwelcome. 

My first stroke of luck comes when I track down the elusive Elrond, whose name appears in the incident reports alongside that of Thranduil. Unlike his colleague, though, Elrond has left the field of law enforcement, and now keeps largely to himself in a secluded home somewhere in the depths of the Highlands. He deigns to speak with me on the telephone, but does not invite me to visit. 

“What do you know about the Sons of Durin?” I ask plainly when we speak. Elrond is not a man for idle chatter or excessive pleasantries, though he does not fail for politeness. “Are they as dangerous as they seem?”

“Dangerous, yes,” he tells me evenly. Even across the phone, his voice carries the weight of authority. “More dangerous than you can imagine. And yet, possibly for entirely different reasons than you may believe.”

That answer being nothing short of cryptic, I decide to approach the topic from another angle. “What is your involvement with this group?”

He sighs heavily. “You’ve read the records, I presume.” He does not wait for my confirmation. “I was merely assisting with their removal from the land, in accordance with the law. It was never meant to be a battle.”

“Did you expect them to come quietly?”

He laughs at that, dry and humorless. “Surely you know better than that by now. Thorin Oakenshield was never going to leave that mountain peaceably. Smaug warned us as much when he ordered police support for the removal.” 

“And the fires?” I ask, glancing down at my bleak photographs of the remains of the homes on the mountain. “The deaths? Were those expected as well?”

He is quiet for a long moment. “Mr. Stewart,” he says bleakly. “The sounds, the sights, even the smells of that night are still with me. The burning of Beinn Chuirn is the reason that I am now retired. Nothing that happened there than night should ever have occurred.”

“Including the removals themselves?” I press. 

“Especially the removals.” He goes silent again for a long moment. “The information we were given suggested an immediate terroristic threat posed by Oakenshield and his compatriots. We had no choice but to act on Smaug’s word.”

“And now? What threat do you see from the Sons of Durin?”

“They are desperate men, and that makes them very dangerous,” he says grimly. “I would not put anything past Oakenshield, particularly if he sees his way clear to revenge. Do not make the mistake of underestimating them, Mr. Stewart, or of thinking that the tragic circumstances of their past make them helpless victims. These men will stop at nothing to see their goals met.” 

The question of what, exactly, those goals might be is one that remains unanswered. 

What is becoming clear is that the Sons of Durin are indeed a dangerous force, operating in secrecy and with unpredictable patterns of movement and action. The police are at a loss to apprehend them by normal means, and seem unprepared for an attack of the size and scope that Elrond warns we should expect. 

I contact a member of the elite Special Forces Support Group, specialising in counter-terrorism and reconnaissance. His rank and specific assignments are not matters for public knowledge, but I trust the honesty and knowledge of this man above all others. I should, after all; we’ve spent our whole lives together. Boromir is, in fact, my own brother, though that has never done me any good in getting classified information from him. 

“I can’t say much, obviously,” he tells me hurriedly. I’ve caught him at a bad time, but he offers what reassurance he can. “They’re very much on our radar, I assure you. We’ve had contingency measures in place for a few years now, and are preparing more as we speak. Threat level on the group has been raised recently, though I can’t say why.”

“What’s the danger? Have they issued any threats, made any demands?”

“No,” he admits. “As far as we can tell, there aren’t any concrete plans for large-scale terrorist activity at this point. They’re mostly engaging in petty theft and identity fraud just now. But just look how frightened they have the public! That’s power, and Oakenshield knows how to create that kind of fear. He’s dangerous.”

“Do you actually know where they are? Has any attempt to contact them been made?”

“We know some of their usual haunts. Oakenshield and his kids are like shadows. We haven’t had eyes on them in months. And - talk to them?” He laughs at me then, in a way that all younger siblings would certainly recognise with distaste. “Little brother, have those investigations of yours sent you completely mad? We don’t talk to the Sons of Durin. Nobody does. That would be suicide.”

“I’d talk to them,” I tell him, and I do mean it. I would speak with any member of the group willing to grant me an interview. After all, I am attempting to find the whole truth of this story, not just represent the most popular interpretation in yet another government-sponsored article.

“You’d get yourself killed,” he warns grimly. “Watch who you ask questions of. This isn’t a matter to go prying into - not if you want to keep breathing.” He’s gone, then, and I do my best to shrug off the warning. 

That becomes slightly harder two days later, when I receive an email from an untraceable address, sent by someone who only styles themself “Mithrandir”. It’s not a name that I can trace, but the information contained within is surprising enough to make me take notice. 

"You have been busy indeed, Faramir Stewart. You are either asking exactly the right questions, or precisely those that you should never voice. I suspect you are the only person who can say for certain which they are. You may find that you are attracting the wrong sort of attention. It is a certainty that Smaug is now watching you, and not with a kind eye. I suggest you become more circumspect in your dealings with the man if you wish to live long enough to complete your investigation."

I cannot tell whether this is meant as a threat or a warning. 

"Nevertheless, you are coming close to making discoveries about the Sons of Durin that Smaug will very much wish you not to make. Think carefully about this, young man. I speak as one who discovered too much, and my life has not been the same after. These men hide their secrets well, and you may find you regret uncovering them. However, if you are determined, I can offer you certain sources your own research may not have turned up. Be certain before you contact me."

My editor gives a low whistle when I show her the email, and claps me on the back. “That’s a prize, and no doubt!” Ioreth assures me. “Mithrandir is a wizard, Stewart. He has sources and information that no-one else can even begin to reach - but he only helps when he’s invested in the outcome. If he’s willing to help you with this, he must have quite a stake in the Sons of Durin, one way or the other.” 

I cannot speak to Mithrandir’s identity or motives, which makes me a bit wary of accepting his information, but my investigation has hit an impasse. I send a message back, and he sends me the names and contact information of a variety of individuals - none of whom, as far as I can tell, have any connection with or interest in Thorin Oakenshield and his gang. 

I exchange letters - real letters, on paper that looks like it was crafted by hand and written quill and ink, with a man who goes by the entirely unlikely name of Fangorn, but signs his letters with an elaborate drawing of an ancient and gnarled tree. His letters are fascinating, full of insight into the nature of trees and woodlands, and he rambles at length (great length, it must be said) about the necessity of wildlands protection and the oncoming threat. For all his words, however, I cannot get any reply from him about Oakenshield and his company, nor even direct commentary about Smaug himself or his wilderness protection scheme. 

“There are deeper and darker things in the hearts of the old forests than even young Smaug can see,” his final letter advises cryptically. “He answers to the same master, but he does not control them. We will come to it in due time. Do not be hasty, young scribe! You who devour the trees with your words, do not test the patience of the forests of this world.”

Thoroughly unenlightened, I decide Mithrandir’s information may be somewhat less accurate than I had hoped, and I decide not to further investigate the matter of Fangorn and his ENTS, whatever those initials may stand for. One mysterious organisation seems to be quite enough for this reporter to handle at the moment.

It is the other contact I am more intrigued by, anyway. Mithrandir says I must speak with Theoden King, Earl of Cassilis, Ayrshire. I know the man. Not personally, it must be said, but his son and I were at school together as children, and I look forward to getting back in touch with Theodred. He was always kind to me, and we were rather close at school; of his father I know little, except that he is a man with vast estates and more than a passing interest in horses. He certainly has the land for it. I travel to Eorl House to meet with him in person, and I am quietly struck by the beauty of the land. It is more open than the mountainous area of my own childhood home, and the rise and fall of the gentle hills seems to offer the perfect vista for windswept horse-rides in a light Scottish rain. My father would say I am a dreamer, but I prefer to believe I simply still see the beauty of this land in more ways than he has, of late. 

Upon arrival at Eorl House, though, I am struck by the intense quiet of the place. It is an ancient manor house, with a curious roof that seems to catch and reflect every particle of sunlight in gleaming gold, and I am reminded of the golden walls of Stirling Castle, glinting in the sun. There are no cars in sight, though, and when I am let into the house by the oddly deferential butler, it seems to ring with silence. I cannot picture this as the childhood home of my lively young friend, for Theodred had never been quiet a moment if he could help it. The butler shows me to a formal dining room, where a man who can only be Theoden sits slumped at the far end, and does not look up when I enter. 

“Good morning, sir,” I try after a moment. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

“I have no interest in speaking to you,” Theoden says. His voice is hoarse and flat, as dead as any living voice could ever sound. He does not look up from his contemplation of the elaborately carved edge of his table. “I only agreed to see you because Mithrandir asked, and I owe him far too much to deny him this, even after what has happened.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but what has happened?” I ask. I’m afraid I am not as polite as I ought to be, but I am more than a little surprised by what I have seen here. He does not answer for a long, awkward moment, and I shake my head. “If it is too much trouble, perhaps I could speak with your son, instead? Theodred and I were great friends in school, and I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to renew our friendship.”

“My son is dead.” Theoden makes the pronouncement as calmly as if he had been speaking of the weather, and with as little feeling. “Can you report on that, young Stewart? Will you scream this great injustice in your headlines? ‘Father Lives to Bury His Son?’ It is the chiefest tragedy I have known.”

It is a shock, and I cannot prevent the sound of surprise that escapes me. Theoden looks up at that, and he looks decades older than even my own father, face a mask of grief that has aged him far more than I expected. Theodred’s pictures from home were all of a man full of life and love, always astride a horse, with eyes that laughed. This man looks like he has died, himself, and merely forgotten to have himself buried. “I am so very sorry,” I choke out after a moment. “I had no idea. Has this just happened?”

He blinks heavily, and looks as though my question has required a great deal of heavy thought before he answers. “He was sick for a great while. He left me just a fortnight ago.” The butler eases his way back into the room, placing a heavy silver goblet at Theoden’s elbow, and bows his way back out of the room again, watching me with dark, hooded eyes the whole while. “Thank you, Grima,” Theoden murmurs, a long moment after the butler has already left. “Theodred was so ill for so very long. I tried to find help for him in every hospital and clinic in this country, and as many others as I could manage. They said there was nothing to be done.” He sips at his cup without any sign of noticing the taste of his drink, and my heart clenches for this much sorrow. 

“Was it cancer?” I whisper. It is not an entirely conscious decision to ask, but it is where my mind goes when I hear of untimely deaths. I suspect it always will, now, since the death of my mother. 

He is silent a long while, shaking his head slowly. “No. They cannot say what killed my son - or they will not say.” He glances around, his gaze wandering, eyes seeming not to focus any longer. “Mithrandir thinks it is some great conspiracy, but he will tell me nothing. After all our long years of friendship, now he asks me to trust him, to help him with my resources, and he will not tell me who is responsible for the death of my son!” The words have the sound of life to them, but his voice does not. He stares out into space, head falling back against the back of his chair, and he looks up to the high ceiling of the room. “Oh, my son,” he whispers. 

I feel like I am watching him drift away, and I glance at my notes now, though they seem almost like an insult. “Please, can I just ask, sir? Do you know anything about the Sons of Durin? Or about Smaug?” 

“Sons of Durin?” Theoden asks weakly, and thinks for a long while. “Thorin,” he decides after a while. “Yes, I have met Thorin. He came to me years ago and asked for help. Wanted something like a war on Edinburgh.” He sighs heavily. “I told him no, then. I had a family to protect, no reason to fight against the government. No more blood to be shed on these lands.” He stares up distantly again, and drains the last of his cup. “Should have told him yes, and gone to war with him. Should have died then, and never lived to see the end of my house.”

He falls asleep, then, I think, or lapses into such deep thought that he does not hear me make my farewells and leave. 

I am tempted to think that Mithrandir has led me astray again, but something stays with me after my visit to Eorl House, and I do a bit of research. Theodred was in government, I find - a senior member of staff for a Scottish MP from Sterlingshire whose name has been redacted from the record by his request. I speak with him in a cafe not far from the Parliament, and he shakes his head sadly when I ask about Theodred. 

“A terrible business, that. Theodred was the best I ever worked with. I did expect him to make MP himself, one day.”

“His father thinks there was something suspicious about his death,” I press cautiously, and the MP sucks in a deep breath, expanding his already generous girth a bit dangerously. 

“Have a care, young fellow,” he warns in a whisper. “Theodred asked more questions than was wise, and look where it has got him.” He sits back, and there is bitter sadness and, perhaps, guilt, in his expression. “I told him more than I should, and he took too keen an interest, I am afraid.”

“So you agree? You think someone was responsible for his death?”

“I think someone is responsible for a great many more deaths than he will ever be called to account for,” my interviewee says meaningfully, and casts a glance at the Parliament, shuddering a little. 

“Who?” I press, leaning forward eagerly. 

But he shakes his head, and there is none of the jolliness I originally saw in this man. “I won’t say another word,” he says, and takes a bite of his pastry. “I won’t see you follow him, or any of the others. No more foolish quests.”

He will not speak with me again. 

In the end, I am left at an impasse. Mithrandir answers none of my emails; my contacts have all dried up; my own brother warns that there are suspicious figures beginning to ask questions about my investigation. I have no avenues left to explore, and the question of the true nature of the Sons of Durin looms as threatening as it always has.

I must reach some sort of conclusion, and yet I am hesitant. From everything that I have seen and heard, I ought to conclude only that they are incredibly dangerous, careless of laws and natural consequences, and driven by desires too dark for civilised society to fully grasp. I should end this series with the most dire of warnings - and it is certain that they are men to be feared. Thorin Oakenshield seems more than half mad, and his followers are either just as bad or else caught up in the web of his personality, dragged along into one murderous venture after another. They have a grip on the hearts and minds of this nation like no criminal family ever has before, and they must not be underestimated. 

But, in the end, I do not find I can entirely condemn them, nor unequivocally argue that they are the terrorists the government has declared them. My investigation is at a standstill - and yet, it seems to be balanced on the edge of a great precipice, and I am given only glimpses into the depths of it. My editor disavows all of what I am about to say, but I am a private reporter, and I must speak my conscience. 

Smaug is a violent and dangerous man, and if my suspicious are correct, he is only the tip of the iceberg. There is a great rottenness at the heart of our government, in the heart of our land, and those who ask too many questions are silenced. Fangorn fears for the land. Boromir fears for the people. Elrond, I think, fears for his own conscience. We are caught up in a story we have not yet begun to tell, and there is something coming - something dark and terrible. I fear we will not see the end of it in our lifetimes. Our days are going down into shadow, and we have not yet seen the signs written clearly enough to throw off our comfortable denial.

It may be that Thorin Oakenshield is not the criminal here after all, but rather the harbinger of what is to come. I ask you now to consider: how much stands between yourself and the life the Sons of Durin live? Is it within the powers of one powerful man to take what you love from you, to leave you bleeding out slowly, to leave you desperate enough to be a danger?

Ask Thorin Oakenshield. Ask his followers, his friends, his children.

Ask Theoden King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies! Consider this another installment in "Kivrin Gradually Finishing Things She Started, Months or Years Late." Still, I very much love this series, and I love writing it so very much, and even if I can't promise to be able to finish it in three days, I swear to you it will be done! 
> 
> Anyway, I do hope it might still be enjoyable to some of you, as well! Love you darling people so very much!


	4. Four

A collection of articles by one Faramir Stewart, writing for the Aberdour Times. Gathered and preserved by Bofur of Beinn Chuirn, and later used in Bilbo Baggins’ best-selling memoir And Back Again: A Grocer’s Account of the Sons of Durin.

6 November, 2012: Police report that the Sons of Durin are suspected to be preparing for a new onslaught of violence in the cities. DI Thranduil of Edinburgh informed reporters today that the terrorist group has been meeting in Edinburgh in greater numbers than usual, but admitted that police were unable to apprehend any of the wanted men. 

“They know the city better than we do,” his forthright assistant admitted later. “We don’t stand much of a chance of catching them without a clearer understanding of their objectives.” 

The public are advised to be on the lookout for members of the group, or for suspicious gatherings in general. Do not attempt to engage any of them. They are considered, by official government proclamation, to be armed and dangerous. 

14 March, 2013 - In a startling development, park authorities in Loch Lomond and the Trossacks National Park are reporting that the Sons of Durin attempted to forcefully retake control of the land that used to belong to them. The little mountain of Beinn Chuirn has long been the focus of their attentions, but park rangers have reported no sightings of the domestic terror group in several years.

In the early hours of yesterday morning, three rangers were discovered, unconscious and bound, at the foot of the contentious hill. Medical authorities assure us that the rangers are in no danger, though park authorities insist that the Sons of Durin must simply have been interrupted at their work and forced to flee.

“You want to remember, these are terrorists,” said Tom Black, one of the injured rangers. “They was armed to the teeth, and had a poor little fellow held hostage! We couldn’t do nothing to stop ‘em! Amazing we woke up without our throats cut, really.”

The Sons of Durin have been spotted with greater regularity of late, and are suspected to be plotting a major attack. Park authorities assure us that they will be on high alert, and better prepared to deal with the threat in future. 

15 March, 2013: Linlithgow authorities are reporting the apparent kidnapping of a local man, seemingly in conjunction with the recent sightings of the Sons of Durin in the area, as reported by sharp-eyed local citizens. 

“They came through on Tuesday,” says Mrs. Gamgee of Bywater Lane, visibly distressed at the thought. “Riding great loud motorbikes at entirely uncivilised hours, of course. We could all have been killed in our beds! And poor dear Mr. Baggins! I expect we shan’t ever see him again!” 

Bilbo Baggins, proprietor of Bag End, a small local grocery, was reported missing two days ago. Mrs. Gamgee, his closest neighbor, first reported her suspicions of foul play to police on Wednesday, when she encountered a distraught and seemingly injured Baggins outside his shop. 

“He was all bloodied, and not at all himself! They must have been threatening him with something dreadful, because he never asked for a bit of help - just locked himself away in his flat for the next few days, and then he was gone! By the time the police finally came round to investigate, there wasn’t anything left but blood!”

Tolman Cotton, spokesman for the local police, declined to offer an official statement on the case, but agreed that things looked grim for Mr. Baggins. 

“It’s never nice when an innocent gets involved with the likes of them,” he said soberly. “Baggins was the sort of man who couldn’t hurt a fly, even if pressed. What they wanted with him, I shouldn’t like to think.” Police have confirmed that traces of blood were found in Baggins’ flat, as well as clear evidence that several other individuals had been staying in the flat. Investigations are underway. Anyone with information about the case is asked to come forward at once. 

There is no family to inform about this tragic event.

17 March, 2013: Sons of Durin captured in Edinburgh! Police report that the group known as the Sons of Durin, who have been wanted for years on charges of domestic terror activities, environmental terrorism, theft, car-jacking, identity fraud, and a host of other charges, were arrested early yesterday morning in Edinburgh.

The group were apparently involved in an altercation with an Edinburgh-based street gang known as the Goblins, which brought police to the scene in time to corner the gang at St. Giles Cathedral in the Old Town of Edinburgh. Police are not yet making an official statement as to whether the entire group was apprehended. Eleven men were removed from the scene before dawn yesterday - some in police vehicles, others in ambulances. Speculation is running rampant among the public, with rumors that several of the Sons of Durin may have been injured or even killed. 

What is known for certain is that Thorin Oakenshield was indeed arrested and taken into custody. Police assure the public that Oakenshield and his men are being held under secure conditions, and advise that we should consider them under control. They are not considered a flight risk. 

18 March, 2013: In a bizarre reversal of expectations, we have learned that apparent kidnapping-victim Bilbo Baggins, whose story has captured hearts across the nation, now seems to have been in cahoots with the Sons of Durin.

A Glasgow man in great distress reported that Baggins, with the assistance of two of the younger members of the gang, assaulted and robbed him four days ago. While the man was clearly under the influence of several powerful narcotic substances, he was able to identify Baggins by name and give a clear physical description that officials indicate is being considered plausible. 

“This individual, who we can identify only by the nickname ‘Gollum’, for reasons of security, has given us a clear lead on the Sons of Durin,” reported DI Thranduil, the lead investigator on the case. “He has slipped through our fingers, unfortunately, but we are now forced to consider Baggins a potential threat. Of course, it may just be that the man is being coerced. We will remain open to all potential explanations. I would suggest to Mr. Baggins, however, that if he was being forced to assist these violent men, he should find a means of informing police. We cannot be held responsible for his safety if he is found to be assisting terrorists willingly.” 

Vigils being held for Baggins are now in a state of some confusion as his loyalties come into question. The most optimistic of his supporters suggest that Baggins was working to undermine the Sons of Durin from within. He has not come forward with the arrest of the group. 

Preparations are being made for the trials of the individual members of the group, though legal experts warn it will be a protracted event. There is still no word on the well-being of those members of the gang who were taken to hospital, though any fatalities would likely be reported promptly by authorities. 

24 March, 2013: Sons of Durin Escape! The recently captured Sons of Durin have managed to escape custody, police officials reported this morning. 

The breakout seemingly occurred late last night, when much of the police staff were attending a reception - ironically, one intended to celebrate their successful capture of the Sons of Durin. Specific details on the escape are not yet known, though DI Thranduil insisted that it had not been an inside job.

“No member of my staff would have helped them to escape, I can assure you. We suspect outside assistance. Baggins of Linlithgow is now officially a suspect, and no longer considered a kidnapping victim.”

Prison records show no Baggins having been incarcerated, or even having visited the prisoners. One William Took was the only visitor any of the Sons of Durin received during their time in prison, and the same Took paid hospital visits to Kili Oakenshield, Thorin’s young nephew, as he was held in a secure wing for treatment. 

Hospital staff declined to comment, with the exception of a man who gave only the name Beorn.

“Young Oakenshield is a determined person,” he told me ponderously. “I am not surprised to see he has found his way. Free things must have their freedom.”

“There will be no freedom for any of the Sons of Durin,” Thranduil assured me on hearing this. “We will find them again, and then they will pay their dues to society. Justice will be done.”

Justice, perhaps, is something the Sons of Durin would not object to finding, if my suspicions are correct. 

30 March, 2013: Police have lost the Sons of Durin somewhere in the Highlands, latest reports suggest. Though DI Thranduil has assured the public that they are about to apprehend the escaped prisoners at any moment, Edinburgh police are now reporting that they lost the trail of the group somewhere in the Highlands yesterday. Police attention has mostly focused on the cities until now, but reports indicate that an informant directed them to a private individual’s home, where they found evidence that the Sons of Durin have been hiding out for the past few days. There is no indication of where they went from there, however, and police are baffled by their seeming disappearance into thin air. 

DI Thranduil also reports, seethingly, that the criminal elements of Edinburgh are in a state of great confusion following recent events. “We have not seen so much criminal activity, particularly among the organised criminal elements, in some time. The Sons of Durin have stirred the pot once again, and left us to deal with it as it boils over.” 

5 April, 2013: The dust has settled on Beinn Chuirn, and the world has changed in a small but significant way for those of us invested in the ongoing saga of the Sons of Durin. 

For those who have somehow avoided the constant updates in all other forms of media, it may come as a surprise that the Sons of Durin are no longer considered a terrorist group. In fact, to many, they are heroes. 

Details are still pending, but this much has already been made clear: the Sons of Durin were assaulted in their own home more than twenty years ago, and they suffered greatly at the hands of former Minister for the Environment Smaug. The charges of domestic and environmental terror activities were fabricated by this man, who sought control of Beinn Chuirn for the mineral resources found under that mountain. It has also become clear that the subsequent persecution of the individuals associated with the group has been more than criminal. Today, they are being held in Edinburgh pending civil and criminal charges on a number of counts - though reasonable commentators hold that the terror charges will be dropped promptly. 

I managed to get hold of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, the Linlithgow grocer whose disappearance and subsequent seeming alliance with the Sons of Durin has been a matter of much commentary of late. He seemed exhausted, after taking part in what became a fully-fledged battle between Smaug’s supporters, drawn from the criminal gangs of Edinburgh, and the forces of the Sons of Durin, their own supporters, and the police. Early reports indicate a number of injuries sustained, but no fatalities reported yet. Baggins was distracted, to say the least, but he did offer a bit of clarification to this newspaper. 

“Ah, yes, William Took? That was me,” he confirmed. “Can’t really say too much right now, but I had to do what I could to get them out, didn’t I?”

When asked why he had assisted the people who kidnapped him, I must report that Mr. Baggins gave a very odd smile, and appeared to search for the answer in the clouds for a long while. 

“Have you ever wanted something a great deal, but not known what it was that you wanted? Not even known if it was a specific thing, or a person, or an experience that you were missing? I was. It just about tore me in two, to be honest.” He shrugged. “They came storming into my life in a flurry of wild words and bad manners, and turned everything upside down. They kidnapped me, and ate all my food, and tracked mud all over the carpets - and do you know what, young man? At some point along the way, I realised that this insane, stubborn, infuriating, wild family were exactly what I had been missing all along. Why did I help them? Easy. They’re my family.”

As of now, Baggins is being asked to remain in Edinburgh to await the trials of the Sons of Durin. D.I Thranduil assures this paper that this time, Baggins will be monitored very closely, and the Sons of Durin will be more adequately housed and supervised until they can stand trial. I will cover those trials as they occur, and readers may rest assured that, until the Sons of Durin find justice, we will not give up on seeking the truth. - F. Stewart

10 April, 2013: Local reporter missing. Faramir Stewart, the previous writer of this column, has been missing for the past three days. Local police indicate they have no suspicions of foul play at this time. Mr. Stewart is advised to contact the editor if and when he wishes to reapply for his position. At this juncture in time, editorial staff see no reason to continue coverage of the trials of the Sons of Durin. Interested persons are advised to follow the news on any other media source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you know a little more about Faramir Stewart's investigative journalism.
> 
> To be honest, as a newspaper editor, I'd fire him too. Very biased feel to his pieces at times. Verges on fanatical interest in Oakenshield and his crew at times. What can you do, though? 
> 
> This marks the end of this particular addition to the series! More is to come in future, once I get a few other things finished up, and then perhaps we will find out what has become of Faramir. 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for reading! It means the world to me.


End file.
